


Wherein our resident ornery troll spends about a bilunar perigee doing almost nothing but examine the specifics of his relationship with our favorite coolkid (the krabby 2 dope remix)

by khrysopos



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Emotions, Introspection, Introspection by the Bucketload, M/M, Ouroboros Mix, Relationship(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 09:30:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khrysopos/pseuds/khrysopos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>You are Karkat Vantas, and you’re pretty sure a certain human is burning up your lifetime supply of chill. Not that it was a substantial amount to begin with.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wherein our resident ornery troll spends about a bilunar perigee doing almost nothing but examine the specifics of his relationship with our favorite coolkid (the krabby 2 dope remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mercurialMalcontent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercurialMalcontent/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Not Friends](https://archiveofourown.org/works/260475) by [mercurialMalcontent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercurialMalcontent/pseuds/mercurialMalcontent). 



> It dawned on me about halfway into this that I have written not a remix, but a long and dreadfully rambling cover version. Oh god I’m so sorry.

You are Karkat Vantas, and you’re pretty sure a certain human is burning up your lifetime supply of chill. Not that it was a substantial amount to begin with.

All the teen romcoms you’ve watched so far in your few sweeps of sad and pathetic existence had warned you how obsessive your thoughts might get once (if) you started thinking about concupiscence.

You fucking _knew_ it, and even prepared for it to an extent for when your relationship with Terezi would have progressed further into either blacker or redder territory, but never could you have predicted and rationalized that the prime target of your libidinous affections would be an insufferable prick with hideous eyewear.

Hell, you have trouble fathoming it even now.

It is--you had realized with horror--incredibly ironic. It was you who was so against the idea of troll/human makeouts in the first place. But now it is also you who has been spending practically all of his free time engaging in interspecific salivary exchange with none other than Dave Strider who is, yes, a human, but also a moronic shithead.

Not that you are really complaining, oh no. At this point, you can’t deny the fact that you find Dave ridiculously and bulgechafingly hot. Though something in the air of this meteor must have damaged your thinkpan so much that you find even that facade of rampant douchebaggery both annoying and attractive. Either that or you’re becoming masochistic to the point that you get turned on when he rebuts and counters your insults with equally long-winded barbs coupled with that default blank expression.

Or when he would shoot you a subtle glance over the top of those stupid shades, giving you a peek of those red eyes alongside a small, self-satisfied smirk that makes your bloodpusher stop in a confused mix of rage and fascination.

Even the most minor touch or remark gets you wanting so much that, on more than one occasion, you had no choice but to grab him by the nonexistent lapels and kiss the nooksucking shit out of that smug mouth. Then grope and feel the rest of him. Then fuck and/or be fucked by him.

It seems to have become something of a cyclic ritual between the two of you. For a semblance of plain odium, you start off with that less-than-friendly banter familiar to everyone in the meteor as you all go about getting shit done for the day. As the hours go by, the encounters start being punctuated by momentary gropes and covert kisses, until the desire eventually reaches a very frustrated peak, and before you know it you’re together, kissing and feeling and fucking with teenage gusto.

It’s all far from terrible, but it almost scares you how much he affects you with each bit of contact, and how everything from the gliding of those alien hands over your skin to the odd, almost hilariously uncharacteristic moans he releases against and into your mouth, brings up an urge to just cling and plead for it to never stop but wow that would be pretty goddamn pathetic of you.

So, outside of the gasps and whimpers and variations of _Dave, you braindead grubshit, move!_ , you say nothing.

But what shakes you most is how he’s as into all of this as you are. Because you still really cannot comprehend why, with all the other hot messes of adolescence on this rock, he chose to initiate this...whatever this is...with you. If he just wanted to sate the near-perpetual horniness that comes with this age, he could have dealt with it with the help of someone he’s actually on amiable terms with. Considering his numerous claims on “having no desire to start being multicultural and be all black or rainbow or shit” and how there are certainly more viable partners than you, you are made painfully aware of how strange this whole deal is.

And worried, as you have no idea of what might come of this later. Hell, for all you know he could lose interest in you as soon as tomorrow and faceplant you back to how things were before all the sex. Except then you’d have “shameful but raging hard-on for Dave Strider” added to your huge pile of “stuff that is horribly wrong with you and makes you hate yourself”.

But it is definitely not the time to ruminate on this shit, because right now you’re supposed to be comforting your bumbling badot of a moirail.

You had searched for him (prompted by John, of all people) and found him at the atrium, poking at an unfamiliar Earth flower and regarding it as if it were another one of those goddamn miracles he keeps rejoicing about. You had joined him, of course. Took him into your arms and began asking about how he was feeling and whether he was eating enough, and well...

Fuck.

You realize that you’ve trailed off at some point during that conversation and must have looked like an idiot, having been staring at some dull plant as you got lost in thought of that almighty douchebag.

You look down at Gamzee and are immediately struck with a pang of guilt.

He had been watching you all this time, apparently. You had not let go of him, and he’s still clinging back, with his head resting on your chest in what must be a fucking uncomfortable position since he’s all gangling, but his expression implies the opposite: eyes calm and that foolishly endearing smile plastered on that painted face as always.

He seems all the more delighted now that your attention is on him, and you feel another twinge.

“Welcome back, best friend!” He loosens his hold on you, and shifts so that your lap is pillowing his head. There’s a beat of uncomfortable silence before he grins up at you and continues. “Now what’s goin’ on in my bro’s thinkpan that’s makin’ him frownier than usual? Wanna get all pale up in this bitch and tell this motherfucker what’s eatin’ you?”

...God, you could just kick yourself right now.

You sigh, slouching against the tree behind you, and start to lightly stroke Gamzee’s hair.

“Yeah...Gamzee. Listen. I know I’ve been a disgustingly terrible excuse for a moirail lately because I’ve been up to my nook in my own worthless bullshit to actually see if you’ve been doing okay or if you’ve gotten sick from eating something weird you found in the vents and...fuck. Just. I’m sorry.”

At some point during that spiel you had begun keeping your eyes away from his and clenching your fist in his hair. You’re nervous, and it’s fucking showing.

Because even though your moirallegiance with Gamzee is far from being a textbook or fairy tale pale romance, the guy is still your friend, and even though you’ve fucked up loads of times before, you find yourself not wanting to disappoint him again.

More seconds pass in silence. You try not to feel so tense and distractedly run your other hand over Gamzee’s cheek.

He honks, and you blink.

You meet his gaze, and are directed with the most palestruck expression you’ve ever seen outside of your romcoms.

“Wanna take it to the pile, brother?”

You could vomit with how much relief you feel.

\---

Gamzee wastes no time. As soon as you enter his respiteblock, you are flung towards the pile and receive a face full of horns and auricular sponge clots full of honks. Before you can react to being treated like a miserable rag doll, Gamzee plops down next to you and faces you, and the careless movement brings about another cacophony of honks.

Even though this is common practice between moirails, you’re still not used to being so voluntarily open about what’s really bothering you, so you give yourself a few more minutes before sighing once more and turning to face your moirail.

You tell him about Dave and the past several weeks. You tell him, while trying not to make your face resemble a ripe fucking cherry, about how you’ve been feeling about it, how it’s been worrying you, and how it’s distracted you up to half an hour ago at the atrium. Gamzee is still and listens with what appears to be rapt attention. As he always have during your feelings jams. You feel a pleasant ache at your chest, and you keep going.

You can’t tell how long you’ve been rambling about Dave and responsibilities and stupid fucking hormones, but it’s during your third set of profuse apologies over being an incompetent and unreliable moirail that Gamzee reached a hand out to pap you on the cheek. You stop.

“Shoosh, bro.” You frown, but relax against the pile. He lets out a strange combination of honking and laughter.

“I know I’ve all up and said this on our other jams, but why do you gotta be overthinkin’ everything?” He taps a finger to your temple; you poke it away with a huff and he laughs. You give him a look and he goes on. “Anyways, bro. Truth be motherfuckin’ told, I still don’t like that particular pink star monkey. But man, it doesn’t matter. There’s nothin’ wrong with gettin’ into the pailin’ ‘n’ makeouts with a pale-faced motherfucker. You just gotta go with this fuckin’ miracle and let some chill into the motherfuckin’ high-strung ball of nerves that you are, my best bro.”

\---

You try your best in taking up Gamzee’s advice. Though you’re not really in a mood to scope for Dave, so you are going to "get your motherfucking chill on" by having a (un)fortunately shag-free night at your respiteblock and in the company of your husktop, some downloaded movies, and a healthy nutrition plateau of Earth sweetmeats courtesy of the more tolerable yet marginally creepy human that is Rose Lalonde.

Husktop fired up on your desk, you scan your movie folder and decide to go with a film starring one of your favorite human actresses: Audrey Hepburn in _Funny Face _.__

__But first, you bring up Trollian to check for offline messages. And you are definitely not hoping that a certain someone is online._ _

__Two chat windows pop up as soon as you’re signed in._ _

__ \-- terminallyCapricious [TC] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG] \-- _ _

____ TC: ThAt WaS a BeAuTiFuL jAm We HaD, bRo.  
TC: i'm GlAd We AlL uP aNd GoT cOnCiLiAtOrY iN tHiS fUcKiN mIrAcUlOuS nIgHt.  
TC: ThOuGh YoU sHoUlD cAtCh SoMe MoThErFuCkIn Zs NoW.  
TC: gIvE tHaT tIrEd SpOnGe Of YoUrS a BrEaK fRoM aLl tHaT tHiNkIn.  
TC: Or YoU cOuLd GeT aLl FrIsKy WiTh YoUr PiNk PaIl MaTe InStEaD.  
TC: yOuR cHoIcE, mY bEsT mOtHeRfUcKeR. ;o)

__ \-- terminallyCapricious [TC] ceased trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG] \-- _ _

__...Goddammit, Gamzee._ _

__You close the chat window and make a mental note to spend some time with him tomorrow. Inappropriate commentary aside, you’re really glad that he listened to you, so it’s the least you could do to thank him as well as to catch up on your moirail and friend duties._ _

__You turn your attention to the remaining, flashing task button._ _

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] \--

EB: hi karkat!  
EB: man, i haven’t caught you online in ages.  
EB: did you manage to find gamzee?  
CG: JOHN.  
CG: OF COURSE.  
CG: I REALLY MISSED INSTANTLY BEING ASSAULTED BY BLUE TEXT SECONDS AFTER I LOG IN.  
CG: I SHOULD APOLOGIZE FOR HAVING DEPRIVED YOU OF MY SPECIAL BRAND OF VIRTUAL COMPANY IN THE FORM OF GRAY WALLS OF DOUBLE-EDGED VITRIOL.  
CG: AND YES, I DID.  
CG: EVEN THOUGH IT PAINS ME IN AN ALMOST PHYSICAL MANNER THAT SOMEONE ELSE HAD TO REMIND ME TO CHECK UP ON MY GODDAMN MOIRAIL ONCE IN A WHILE, I SUPPOSE THAT I SHOULD.  
CG: WELL.  
EB: you’re welcome!  
EB: i guess.  
CG: |:B  
EB: heheheh.  
EB: anyway... gamzee’s doing okay right???  
EB: at least, he’s not about to go all rage clown on us, i hope.  
CG: OH GOD.  
CG: NO, FUCK NO.  
CG: HE IS AS SOPORIFICALLY-PACIFIED AS ALWAYS.  
EB: oh, good!  
EB: then that aside, well...  
CG: YES?  
EB: i know we see each other around the meteor a lot, but it’s been weeks since we actually hung out!  
CG: OH.

There’s that pang of guilt again. Had you really been so preoccupied with Dave for the past few weeks?

EB: yeah.  
EB: so i was wondering.  
EB: would you be up for a movie or something tomorrow?  
EB: consider it a meeting for us friendleaders haha.  
CG: SO NOT ONLY HAVE I DEPRIVED YOU OFF MY ONLINE TROLLING, BUT ALSO OF AN AWESOME MOVIE BUDDY?  
EB: pfft.  
EB: something like that.  
CG: FINE.  
EB: :D  
CG: BUT I GET TO PICK THE MOVIE.  
EB: deal!

He says, but you spend the next half hour in serious conversation on considering genre, eliminating movies you’ve both already watched more than two times, the presence of Troll Will Smith, Nic Cage and/or Matthew McConaughey...and eventually come to an agreement on _Amélie_.

John absconds soon after that, and you are about to follow suit, but the link to a particular board catches your eye.

Hesitant, you hover the cursor over it, because dammit your moirail just told you to stop over-analyzing this, but you click on it anyway.

CURRENT carcinoGeneticist [CCG] RIGHT NOW opened memo on board CHERRY RUMPUS ASSHOLE PARTY.

CCG: OKAY.  
CCG: GET IN HERE, FUTURE ASSHOLES.  
CCG: I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHY I’M GOING THROUGH WITH THIS, BUT THERE’S SOMETHING WE NEED TO DISCUSS.  
FUTURE carcinoGeneticist [FCG] 25:40 HOURS FROM NOW responded to memo.  
FCG: OH MY GOD IT’S YOU.  
CCG: WHAT DO YOU MEAN “IT’S ME”.  
CCG: WE’RE THE SAME FUCKING PERSON, YOU BULGELICKING TAINTMOUTH.  
FCG: PREACHING TO THE GODDAMN CHOIR, BUT WHATEVER.  
FCG: ANYWAY, AS WE ARE, AS YOU, OR I, OR ME FROM ABOUT A DAY AGO, SAID (FUCKING TIMEY-WIMEY BULLSHIT), WE ARE THE SAME FUCKING PERSON, SO I KNOW THAT YOU’RE ABOUT TO EXPLODE IN HISTRIONICS ABOUT FUCKING DAVE STRIDER.  
FCG: AND I MEAN “FUCKING DAVE STRIDER” IN EVERY SENSE OF THE PHRASE.  
FCG: SO GET ON WITH IT, YOU INCOMPETENT PIECE OF SHIT.  
CCG: OH MY GOD, AND I THOUGHT PAST ME WAS AN ASSHOLE.  
FCG: CAN YOU NOT SEE THE NAME OF THIS STUPID BOARD.  
FCG: ALL ITERATIONS OF KARKAT VANTAS ARE ASSHOLES.  
CCG: THAT IS TRUE.  
CCG: UGH, FINE.  
CCG: IT’S JUST.  
CCG: I CAN’T HELP BUT FEEL THAT THERE’S SOMETHING DEEPER BEHIND THIS.  
CCG: AND I DON’T MEAN DEEPER IN THAT THERE ARE SOME FUCKING HEAVY EMOTIONS PERMEATING THIS...RELATIONSHIP.  
CCG: OR.  
CCG: NO.  
FCG: THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT YOU MEAN.  
CCG: I GUESS.  
FCG: BUT YOU’RE CONCERNED THAT THE BULK OF THESE, HELL, ALL OF THESE FEELINGS ARE COMING FROM YOU ALONE.  
FCG: AND THAT DAVE, BEING THE OBNOXIOUS DOUCHE THAT HE IS, IS MOST LIKELY JUST IN THIS FOR THE SEXY SEX.  
CCG: THE LATTER IS FUCKING OBVIOUS.  
CCG: WHAT BOTHERS ME ABOUT IT IS WHY THE FUCK HE’S ENGAGING IN THIS WITH *ME*.  
FCG: WHEN HE HAS JADE OR TEREZI OR EVERYBODY ELSE IN THIS ROCK?  
CCG: YES.  
FCG: YOU ARE A BONA FIDE INSECURE MORON.  
FCG: ARE YOU JUST NOT ABLE TO STOMACH THE POSSIBILITY THAT HE ACTUALLY FINDS YOU, AND ONLY YOU, VERY FUCKING ATTRACTIVE IN A CONCUPISCENT LIGHT?  
CCG: BULLSHIT.  
CCG: JUST WEEKS AGO HE WANTED FUCK ALL TO DO WITH ME.  
CCG: ARE YOU IMPLYING THAT AFTER SWEEPS OF NOTHING BUT TORRENTIAL AND PLATONIC ANTIPATHY HE’S SUDDENLY...  
CCG: OH MY GOD IS HE FUCKING *BLACK* FOR ME?  
FCG: NO.  
PAST carcinoGeneticist [PCG] 1477:19 HOURS AGO responded to memo.  
PCG: WHAT. THE. JUNGLEHUMPING. FUCK.  
FCG: HELL NO.  
CCG banned PCG from responding to memo.  
FCG: HELL.  
FCG: FUCKING.  
FCG: NO.  
CCG: OKAY, I GOT IT, NO!  
FCG: WHY THE FUCK DO I HAVE TO PUT UP WITH THIS SHIT.  
FCG: AT LEAST I HAVE SOME SOLACE IN THE FACT THAT YOU’RE GOING TO BE IN MY PLACE A DAY LATER.  
CCG: STOP YOUR GODDAMN WHINING.  
CCG: YOU’VE BEEN OF NO HELP ANYWAY.  
FCG: THEN STOP TALKING TO ME AND GET THE HELL OUT OF THIS CLUSTERFUCKING TRAINWRECK.  
FCG: GO SALVAGE THE REST OF YOUR STUPID NIGHT.  
CCG: NO, WAIT.  
FCG banned CCG from responding to memo.  
FCG banned himself from responding to memo.

FCG closed memo.

...Okay, that was the complete opposite of productive and you are going to pretend that conversation never happened. You have no desire to address any of the shit that was brought up back there with even just a passing thought. 

With no other messages to attend to, you sign out of Trollian and begin getting ready for your solo movie night. 

You move to a comfortable spot by your pile. Husktop balanced on your lap and confectioneries right at your side, video started up... You are good to go! 

\---

You _were_ good to go, but half into the scene at the bookstore where the charming fashion photographer finally meets the amateur philosopher with the eponymous “funny face” (you had chuckled at “ _It is chichi, and an unrealistic approach to self-impressions as well as economics_ ” and finally, a human character who understands certain Alternian views on fashion), your mind begins to wander into dangerous Strider territory.

You remember Dave barging into your respiteblock once. You were re-watching one of your romcoms and, after multiple failed attempts in getting you to disregard Troll Adam Sandler’s daily red courtship of amnesiac Troll Drew Barrymore in favor of sloppy makeouts, he relented and watched the rest of the movie with you after you promised “post-movie nude swordfighting”.

It was and is the most simultaneously aggravating and hilarious movie session you’ve ever had.

Aggravating in that he kept on fucking commenting throughout, and while John’s bouts of gushing over action stars are less bothersome, Dave’s almost continuous and very verbose derision of basically every plot point was near-unbearable. However, the hilarity of some of them made up for it, like in his mockery of Troll Adam Sandler’s face which “rivals the derpiness of our dear friend John Egbert, God and Troll Jegus bless him” and that Troll Drew Barrymore’s brother was hands-down the best character because “wow look at those choice pectorals I would definitely wear red fishnet wifebeaters all the time if I were half as swole as that dude”.

You had held back a chuckle which promptly evolved to roaring laughter when Dave spent the next two minutes trying to recreate said ‘swole motherfucker’’s flexing scene and failing.

Even now, you find yourself smiling a bit at the memory.

Then comes a mood whiplash when the scene in your mind changes to when Dave had closed your husktop shut and lunged at you, planting kisses in-between falsetto murmurings of “ _nothing beats a first kiss_ ”, and after the initial annoyance, you were left helpless in the feel of fragile skin under one hand, soft pale hair between the fingers of the other, and sensory overload at the sweet, firm contact of lips and tongues and of bulge and dick meeting in a carnal yet almost rhythmic dance of pleasure.

You come, and realize that the movie had ended, and your husktop is now on standby and sitting on a plate of candies and cakes. Fuck. You clean yourself and it up is best as you can before climbing on your pile.

Jerking off at night usually puts you to sleep soon after, but tonight, it takes what seems like hours for your eyes to feel heavy.

You fall asleep to the thought of waking up next to Dave Strider in the morning and at Paris, disheveled but peaceful, and with the Beach Boys’ “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” playing in the background.

\---

It feels like you didn’t get any sleep, and you’re more restless than ever. You are conflicted on whether you should go look for Dave or just keep going as is because for some idiotic reason you feel you’re not ready to face him just yet.

And fuck you for thinking of him so early in the fucking morning.

Your “dinner” last night was far from filling (though it was fucking delicious bless you, Rose), so you drag yourself to the nutrition block for some breakfast.

“Well look who we have here!”

Kanaya is there, smiling softly at you as she sets a plated pie down on the table. She beckons you in. You grunt and take the seat across from where she’s standing.

“Your presence has been strangely lacking lately,” she says as she turns to retrieve something from the cupboard. Though her tone is neutral and far from accusatory, there’s that pang again. You answer with an affirmative noise, because by now you are obviously fucking aware of that factoid, and slump against the table’s surface.

Before you can immerse yourself in another internal diatribe of self-deprecation, you are caught by surprise when she’s suddenly a lot closer and puts a hand on your shoulder. You tense, and hesitantly glance up.

“Ease up. I have no intention of interrogating you about it.” She gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze before setting down a fork and slice of pie--you guess it’s lemon, from the scent--by your head and moving to take the place next to you. “I am only hoping that you make yourself more available.”

You sigh and sit up straighter. Since it appears this conversation won’t be going anywhere near you-know-goddamn-who, you focus your agenda on the appeasement of your hunger.

You reach for the fork--

“Besides. I already have a rough understanding of what has been going on, thanks to a reliable source.”

\--and freeze.

She’s still smiling, while you’re feeling a desire to spontaneously combust right here and now. But it’s not a big deal, you remind yourself. Maintain your damn composure. You take the fork and start cutting up your pie. “What are you talking about?”

Leisurely and gracefully, she folds her arms together and rests them on the table.

“That while you’ve been absent to the rest of us, you’ve been keeping close company with Dave.” You are inwardly freaking out, but you try to keep some vestige of calm by focusing on devouring the dish given to you. You take a large forkful of pie.

“And? What are you getting at, Kanaya?” Two more large forkfuls, and you swallow.

She hums. “Considering how you still appear to be on far from genial terms with each other, I was wondering whether that has completely reversed in more private settings, or if it has progressed to more...caliginous relations.” 

Oh no. Hell fucking no. You do not want to think about this again. You do not want to so much as poke that can of wrigglepests with a triple sanitized meter stick.

You say so to Kanaya.

“I get what you’re trying to do, and no, we do not need an auspistice because me and Dave are definitely not involved in an interspecific hate romance!” You realize you’ve been stabbing your pie quite forcefully as you speak and once again you tell yourself to _calm the fuck down_.

Kanaya regards you with more apparent curiosity this time, and you begin to see the weight of Vriska’s comments on her “meddling”.

With a groan, you push the plate away and slump back down.

“Truth be fucking told, even I’m not sure what’s going on.” You leave it at that, because even though you already shared this shit with Gamzee, you’re not about to dispense it to the rest of this meteor’s lacking population. It seems to be enough for Kanaya, as she simply nods in response.

The silence after your admission stretches as Kanaya, sensing your preoccupation, wordlessly takes the plate of mangled pie and deposits it at the sink. After that, she returns to your side with a glass of water which you accept with a mutter of “thanks”. You take a swig.

“You know,” she begins, “something that has always impressed me about Dave is how passionate he is.”

You raise an eyebrow at this. Because Dave. Passionate. Haha that’s fucking rich. “Passionate? That blank-faced scumbag?”

She chuckles. “Of course. Though you usually witness him flitting aimlessly about, it’s difficult to ignore the extent to which he pursues the endeavors he actually participates in. Take Can Town, for example.”

You understand her point right away. Can Town, which had initially been the Mayor’s tiny project, took no time expanding as soon as Dave and Terezi got their hands on it. With how much they had worked on it for months, it would be more apt to rename the whole thing Can Metropolis.

It all used to make you nothing but jealous, though looking at it from this perspective, the amount of effort they’d put on it is very impressive.

“A more recent example is when some time ago, Dave asked me to read ancient Alternian slam poetry to him.” She lets out another chuckle. “It was strange activity, but it was almost funny how focused he was on the verse.”

Even you can’t resist a snigger at that. “No wonder some of his shitty raps seemed even more ridiculous and esoteric.”

It nags at you that there was a time when he asked you to read a couple of troll romance novels to him, and you had acquiesced out of absolute boredom. Like with movies, he didn’t hold back on the stupid commentary, but now, it’s easy to notice how intently he must have been listening to be that vocal about it.

You don’t voice any of this though, because you think have a good idea on where Kanaya is leading this conversation, and you're not sure whether to be happy about the conclusion or not.

“You’ve noticed? Oh. Though I suppose that should not be a surprise since you seem to be the primary target of those ‘sick fires’.”

“And I resent that fact with each passing day of my ugly disappointment of an existence.” Oh god, you hate how subtle yet still somehow direct she is about this. But you can’t really deny the truth of her statement.

She smiles at you again, though this is time there’s something off about it which you can’t put your finger on.

“I have to retire for now but, as always, do feel free to approach me if you want to talk.”

As she leaves, you thank her for the pie.

\---

It’s almost noon, and you’ve spent the past few hours hanging out with Gamzee and then moping in your respiteblock like the pathetic sack of shit that you are.

It had struck you earlier that it’s actually been _over a day_ since Dave last made a verbal jab at you. You know you should be either be impressed or relieved, yet it only unnerves you.

What the fuck.

Dave making jabs at your very being and everything else that comes with it has become such a common aspect of your day-to-day living that you are practically freaking the fuck out at the absence of it.

What the actual fuck is wrong with you?

Answer: a lot of things, obviously.

But developing a penchant for being derided via stupid yet laughably prolix remarks should be crossing the line! Even if said remarks somehow get to be oddly poetic and...impressive.

And how that vocabulary, with that low voice and the occasional drawl, expands and explodes into impromptu raps and that roll of sounds and words just _get to you_.

...Okay, you can admit to yourself that yes, Dave does have a certain way with words which you kind of sort of also find attractive. To a small degree.

Though it’s more than missing his ‘burns’. You also miss making equally verbal strikes back at him. Because face it, you are as much of an ass as he is, and there’s just so much you find abhorrent about him that you can’t help but comment. How ridiculous he looks, his stupid love of irony, his disregard for keeping the fucking lid of the communal load gapers down...the list goes on.

And there’s also that he’s the only one who can stand you and take all the shit you spew like a fucking champ, as well as challenge you by firing back.

To your dismay, Kanaya’s words come back ringing in your ears.

You and Dave may both deny it, but you know there’s always been a caliginous spark between the two of you. It may not be enough for full-fledged kismessitude, but that sense of hostility and rivalry is there.

You push away the thought that Dave is probably the only human who can handle a black romance if he wanted to, because hell no, you rejected that scenario sweeps ago. Sure, the two of you argue (to obscene extents), enjoy incidentally engaging in these arguments in a more physical manner (when you have sex, you sometimes brush against scars of wounds you inflicted during one of your strifes, and there’s still that swell of pride), and relish being rough on each other in general (from the insults to physical fights to fucking), but...

...you don’t hate him.

You hate particular facets of him, but you don’t hate _him_.

\---

You steal a couple slices of the pie from this morning, then quickly devour them in a combined fit of hunger, nerves, and frustration. While doing so you think _oh god what did you get yourself into_. 

\---

John is already there when you manage to somewhat pull yourself together enough to head to the common room. He greets you with an enthusiastic wave and that ‘derpy’ smile.

“ _Finally!_ ” He gesticulates for you to hurry and take your place on the couch. “Man, I was starting to worry that you were gonna ditch me.”

Seeing John act like the usual happy dork that he is makes you feel a bit better, in a way, and you find yourself letting out a natural scoff. “Do you think I’m enough of a jerk to bail on this all-important ‘friendleader meeting’?”

“Well...when you put it that way, no,” he says with a laugh. “Though you can’t really blame me for thinking it! ‘Cause you seem to be kinda preoccupied lately.” You thought you’d be resistant to these stabs of guilt by now, but no, they still metaphorically stab at you with full fucking power. You try to not look affected and maintain the sour look you must be giving him.

“It’s kind of hard not to be distracted when we’ve got all this shit to do, with the rebuilding and all.”

He raises an eyebrow and counters with an odd look.

“...Uh huh.”

It’s obvious that he doesn’t buy it (oh god what does he know), but thankfully, he drops the subject in favor of setting up the TV and DVD player.

“Oh! I just remembered!” He glances back at you as he pops the DVD into the drive, and you give him a look to continue.

“I invited Dave for some bro time gaming after this. If you want to, I’m sure he’d be cool with you joining us. What do you say?” He turns on the TV, and you stare at the _Amélie_ menu screen.

You take back what you thought earlier. John just took that small bit of better and turned it into a metric fuckton of _no_.

After blinking some when John shuts the lights off, you grunt. “Definitely not. He’s already constantly infuriating, but it’s somehow turned up threefold when he’s losing a game. There is no way I’m going near that mess ever again.”

You hope that’s convincing enough, and are relieved when John plops back down next to you with a loud laugh.

“Soooooooo true! I guess I’ll have to deal with it by myself then. Ah, the sacrifices a bro makes.” He points the remote at the player, poises a finger over the ‘play’ button, then gives you a nudge.

“Are you ready to commence this meeting of the friendleaders?” he asks in a mock-formal tone.

You crack a smile, and hope the shakiness of it isn’t noticeable.

“Bring it.”

\---

John is at your side, looking like he ate something very fucking sour, but you just know he’s suppressing tears over what Amélie did for the concierge. You would be in a similar state, were it not for the fact that a few minutes into the movie, John had started rifling through a box--yes, box--of candy at his feet.

It’s like when you see something--no matter how small--that was part of a special memory, and that memory plays out in your head like select movie scenes you appreciated enough to remember.

And with one look at that box, the memory comes back. John at your left and Dave at the right, and at this exact room. You watched _Con Air_ , though all you remember about it is that it was terrible, because ninety-five percent of your attention was on Dave and how he kept on _doing things_ to rile you up (subtly, or actually not-so-subtly because John was so enamored with Cameron Poe that he probably wouldn’t have noticed if Dave had began stripping then and there), until you couldn’t take any more of it sitting down and you _flirted back_.

Then an hour later you were in Dave’s respiteblock, and you were rutting against each other like it was a goddamn competitive sport and oh god you’d moaned his name and he was _gone_.

Therefore, instead of waxing quiet poetics over the whimsical exchanges between Amélie and Nino, you find yourself, once more, thinking about none other than Dave Strider.

The first time you kissed. The first time you saw how human genitals looked. The first time you had some form of sex.

It’s near the climax of the movie, but your mind is still wandering.

A hell of a long time has passed since then, and the slow realization that how you felt back then had not so much as diminished but actually _grew_... It scares you.

It scares you not because it’s intense, but because you don’t know what fucking feeling it is and what it fucking means.

\---

You leave while John sets up for ‘bro time gaming’. Knowing Dave, he’ll most likely take his time going to the common room, which gives you leeway to abscond before he gets there.

You’re aware of how you’re basically avoiding him at this point, but you’re still just not ready to deal with him. You won’t even know what to say.

Your escape leads you to the atrium.

It could help you clear your head, you think, so you take your time roaming the space teeming with flowers and slowly maturing crops.

It’s late afternoon, so you’re surprised when you find Jade hard at work at the pumpkin patch, skirt stained with dirt and hand clutching a pair of shears. She and Kanaya usually tend to the plants at around half-past ridiculously-early o’clock.

As she brings up a hand to wipe the sweat from her forehead, her gaze shoots up and meets yours.

“...Oh! Hi, Karkat!” She stands and fixes her loose hair with a filthy hand, and you wonder how someone so capable can also be so careless. You sigh, then sidle closer to pluck some particularly noticeable brown from the strands.

“Hey.” You brush the dirt away from your hand with a frown. “You know, you could put on some gloves first or at least put your fucking hair up before doing...whatever the fuck it is you’re doing.” You indicate the shears still in her grip.

She frowns back, then blows a raspberry at you. Oh, wow, that’s charming.

“I do what I want!” she declares. “And, well...right now what I want is to get this pruning done, so...” She raises and gives the shears a shake. “Mind if I continue?”

Usually this would annoy you, but at this moment, anything that can keep her from fully noticing and interpreting what you say is a welcome asset. Jade can be as perceptive as Terezi when she's paying closeattention.

You nod. “Do your thing.”

She grins, then gets back down and resumes her horticultural mission.

“So was there something you wanted to talk about?” she asks while snipping off what appears to be stray vines.

“Not really,” you say. “I was just walking around and happened to see you.”

“Oooh,” she drawls. “That’s somewhat strange for you.” You grunt in assent, then notice that while she’s so invested in the cutting she’s doing, you’re just standing over her like a tool.

Hesitant, you poke her on the shoulder. She looks up.

“Hm?”

“Anything I can help you with?”

She grins at the offer, though you feel it’s more triumphant than appreciative. She points at the farthest corner of the patch.

“Starting from that corner,” she begins, then gestures towards a nearby sack of...more dirt, it looks like?, “cover the vines with soil. Not too much though!”

Sounds easy enough. With a nod, you haul the sack towards the spot she indicated and get right to work.

You make light conversation with Jade as you slowly progress through the patch.

It’s kind of funny, because during the game your dialogues with her tended to be a lot more intense and riddled with swears from one or both parties. Not that you don’t like how it is now; it’s nice that you’re on more friendly terms with her. Same goes with John.

Oh god, John. That horrible black crush you had on him makes you shiver in disgust even now. Past you was such a fucking idiot.

...Then there’s that hour or two when you felt almost flushed for Jade.

That...was okay.

You think that maybe if you hadn’t been unable to talk to her for three years, you probably would’ve become completely red for her, and wow, maybe it could have even worked between you two.

No use pondering it now, though. She’s a good friend and that’s it.

They’re all your friends. Well, all except...maybe...yeah.

You really need to stop thinking in circles like this.

\---

After Jade got you to spray water over the soil you laid out, you both had a good fill of some pumpkin (surprise, surprise) stew she had whipped up.

Hunger sated and dishes done, you go your separate ways--she to meet up with some of the girls, and you to once again hermit it up in your respiteblock.

You defer, though, when, while passing by the common room, you see John and Dave playing some kind of shooter game and trying to forcefully nudge each other as if it would help make one of them lose.

Blatant, visceral, undeniable jealousy hits you, and _what the fuck._

Why would you be jealous of _John_? 

You’d chalk it up to some twisted form of infidelity that your thinkpan must be sensationalizing, but that would make no fucking sense at all. At most, John would be something like Dave’s moirail, and why would that make you jealous when you’re in a perfectly stable moirallegiance and _you harbor no pale feelings for Dave whatsoever_ because no, just...no. 

You sprint the rest of the way to your respiteblock--no fucks to be given about the noise you’re possibly making--and slam the door shut.

What the hell.

_What the hell._

You are fucking losing it. You are going apeshit rotten bananas for no special reason other than feeling so fucking much for that disgustingly alluring douchelick. You want to just _scream_ and throw the most humiliating temper tantrum of this generation, but like hell that would help in any way outside Dave possibly winning at Karkat Tantrum Bingo.

Fuck.

You throw yourself onto your pile and just...curl into a ball of concentrated confusion and frustration.

What changed? Everything was hunky fucking dory two days ago, but here you are now, on the verge of a mental-slash-emotional breakdown over Dave fucking Strider.

A small part of you believes it’s inevitable after all the hiding and running around you’ve been doing with him--that you should have had the gall to address this shit and made things crystal clear early on--and just why do you keep on making things more difficult and melodramatic for yourself??

From the corner of your vision, you spot your husktop sitting on your desk, and are struck by a potentially horrible course of action. For the umpteenth time over the past twenty four hours.

\---

CURRENT carcinoGeneticist [CCG] RIGHT NOW opened memo on board CHERRY RUMPUS ASSHOLE PARTY.

CCG: I NEED HELP.  
PAST carcinoGeneticist [PCG] 671:21 HOURS AGO responded to memo.  
PCG: DO *NOT* GO TO THE LIBRARY DURING THURSDAY NIGHTS.  
PCG: REGARDLESS OF WHAT YOU WANT TO FUCKING RESEARCH.  
CCG banned PCG from responding to memo.  
CCG: NO.  
CCG: FUTURE KARKATS ONLY.  
CCG: PLEASE.  
FUTURE carcinoGeneticist [FCG] 440:00 HOURS FROM NOW responded to memo.  
FCG: TALK TO ME.  
CCG: OH.  
FCG: GO ON.

This one seems more conversational. Though you can’t help but be curious considering from how far in the future he is.

CCG: WELL.  
CCG: I’M JUST SO FUCKING CONFUSED RIGHT NOW.  
CCG: BUT.  
CCG: CAN I ASK YOU SOMETHING FIRST.  
FCG: SHOOT.  
CCG: ARE YOU AND DAVE STILL A THING?  
FCG: YES WE ARE A THING  
FCG: WE ARE SO FUCKING MATTER THAT OUR DENSE REALNESS CONTINUES TO EXPAND THIS MOTHERFUCKING UNIVERSE AS WE SPEAK  
FCG: WE ARE MORE REAL THAN KRAFT MAYO

The confusion pile doesn’t stop from getting taller.

CCG: WHAT.  
FCG: BUT WE’RE SUPPOSED TO BE TALKING ABOUT YOU AND YOUR SHIT.  
FCG: SO GET ON WITH SAID TALKING SO I CAN BESTOW UPON YOU MY INCREDIBLY SAGACIOUS ADVICE.

What the fuck is with this asshole?

CCG: ALRIGHT.  
CCG: SPEAKING OF DAVE.  
CCG: JUST. I DON’T KNOW WHAT THIS THING I HAVE WITH HIM IS AND NOW THAT I’M AWARE OF THIS LACK OF DEFINITION, I AM SLOWLY FUCKING LOSING IT.  
CCG: I HAVE BEEN SO BESIDE MYSELF OVER THIS SHIT FOR SEVERAL FUCKING HOURS NOW THAT I AM ON THE VERGE OF ANOTHER MENTAL BREAKDOWN.  
CCG: IT’S LIKE A TERMINAL ILLNESS THAT KEEPS ON SPREADING THROUGH MY MUTANT BLOODSTREAM IN A VERY RAPID RATE.  
CCG: OR--DARE I FUCKING SAY IT--A TRIGGER THAT IS SO EASILY AND INTENSELY FINGERED WITH SO MUCH AS A NORMAL STATEMENT FROM WHOEVER I GET THE NERVE TO TALK TO.  
FCG: OH MY GOD WHY WAS I SO PATHETIC.  
FCG: QUIT THE UNNECESSARY SIMILES AND TELL ME WHAT EXACTLY YOU ARE NOT UNDERSTANDING.  
CCG: AND HERE I WAS STARTING TO THINK YOU WEREN’T AS MUCH OF AN ASSHOLE.  
FCG: WEH WEH WEH.  
CCG: UGH. FINE, ASSWAD.  
CCG: TO PUT IT SIMPLY: I KNOW I’M FEELING SOMETHING FOR HIM, BUT I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT IT IS.  
CCG: OR MORE ACCURATELY, AND I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M ABOUT TO SAY THIS.  
CCG: THERE ARE TIMES WHEN I FEEL IT’S BLACK, THEN RED, AND SOMETIMES EVEN FUCKING PALE.  
CCG: THE LATTER BEING PARTICULARLY SHAMEFUL BECAUSE I HAVE A GOOD ENOUGH MOIRAIL THAT I LIKE AND REALLY CARE ABOUT.  
CCG: EVEN THOUGH I HAVEN’T BEEN EXPRESSING IT TO HIM AS MUCH LATELY.  
CCG: BUT I DIGRESS.  
CCG: THEN THERE’S THOSE TIMES THAT I JUST CAN’T PUT A FINGER ON HOW I FEEL.  
FCG: A CLASSIC CASE OF QUADRANT VACILLATION.  
CCG: I’VE CONSIDERED THAT, BUT I DON’T THINK IT FITS RIGHT.  
CCG: AND DAVE DID SAY THAT HE HAS NO DESIRE IN GETTING MULTICULTURAL ON THE ROMANCE FRONT.  
FCG: I AGREE.  
CCG: THEN WHAT THE HELL IS IT?  
FCG: TRUTH BE TOLD, I HAVEN’T FULLY GRASPED IT MYSELF EITHER.  
CCG: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME.

You really don’t think you can handle over two more weeks on this emotional rollercoaster.

FCG: YES.  
FCG: NOW LET ME FUCKING FINISH.  
FCG: I THINK IT’S HIGH TIME YOU STOP THINKING ABOUT WHAT YOUR RELATIONSHIP IS.  
FCG: BECAUSE EVEN IF YOU DO MANAGE FIND THAT DEFINITION, IT MIGHT NOT NECESSARILY BE ONE THAT YOU’RE OKAY WITH.  
FCG: WHAT MATTERS IS WHAT YOU *WANT* IT TO BE.  
FCG: SO WORK ON THAT INSTEAD.  
FCG: OKAY?  
CCG: ...OKAY.  
FCG: GOOD.  
FCG: I’LL LEAVE YOU WITH THAT THOUGHT EXPERIMENT OF A HIVEWORK FOR NOW.  
FCG: BYE.  
FCG ceased responding to memo.

CCG closed memo.

That was actually some pretty solid advice. Though the mere notion of embarking on that train of thought stirs up your nerves, at least the prospect of some grand enlightenment reaching you seems more significant.

A notification pops up before you can depart for the mental adventure.

PAST carcinoGeneticist [PCG] 25:39 HOURS AGO opened memo on board CHERRY RUMPUS ASSHOLE PARTY.

PCG: OKAY.  
PCG: GET IN HERE, FUTURE ASSHOLES.  
PCG: I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHY I’M GOING THROUGH WITH THIS, BUT THERE’S SOMETHING WE NEED TO DISCUSS.

Oh god, this blithering imbecile.

CURRENT carcinoGeneticist [CCG] RIGHT NOW responded to memo.  
CCG: OH MY GOD IT’S YOU.  
PCG: WHAT DO YOU MEAN “IT’S ME”.  
PCG: WE’RE THE SAME FUCKING PERSON, YOU BULGELICKING TAINTMOUTH.  
CCG: PREACHING TO THE GODDAMN CHOIR, BUT WHATEVER.

You spend the next half hour talking to this asshole. An asshole who is basically you from last night, and god why are your past selves so terrible.

After that’s over with, you close Trollian, and are about to shut down your husktop when a particular folder on the desktop catches your eye.

COMPLETE BULLSHIT

You snigger.

Aptly named, the folder houses files which Dave has a tendency to leave for your later discovery each time he borrows your husktop. You double-click it open and scroll through the contents, impressed at the amount of it. You don’t look at every single thing he leaves, but you always move them into this folder. Whether it’s for weird, sentimental reasons or for future opportunistic reasons you’re not really sure.

You click on a random file and immediately have to hold back laughter.

It’s a photo of Dave. Taken using the built-in camera, it seems.

He’s mimicking something like the pose of a swooning maiden: upper body and head tilted back, back of a lightly-folded hand pressed to his forehead, and the other splayed over his cheek. It would’ve been believable if not for those stupid shades, masculine features, and how his mouth, instead of being slightly ajar in happy surprise, is puckered to an almost perfect circle as if in homage to cartoon octopi everywhere.

You take notice of a caption scrawled in his signature red.

oooh mister vantas ooh

You don’t get it, but you burst out in hysterics nonetheless. It reminds you of Zorro Amélie and also of that one gutbusting romcom night, but you feel neither troubled nor wanting to vomit in nervousness. It’s as if some of that emotional weight disappeared from your shoulders.

But though you no longer feel as if you’re ready to snap at any moment, there’s a hint of maudlin underneath the ease.

You file it for later dissection and after you’ve sorted all the other shit out. But first, you plop down onto your pile, hopeful for the possibility of a good night’s sleep while you’re still in this temporary haze of almost-but-not-quite peace.

A sentence flashes in your mind as you shut your eyes.

“ _Without you, today’s emotions would be the scurf of yesterday’s._ ”

\---

You can’t sleep.

Your eyes are heavy and your body is slack against the pile, but you can’t sleep.

It’s not a matter of nerves, but a matter of complete and utter restlessness because _you want to see him_.

Even after much contemplation on the ‘hivework’ your future self gave you, you still haven’t come to a conclusion. At the very least, you know you want to see Dave because maybe directly confronting him about it can help you out of this mental jam?

It’s the middle of the night, so he’s most likely in his room. Though that would also mean he’s dead asleep. Goddammit.

You get up and out of your respiteblock anyway. Maybe a walk can satisfy this weird itch.

The hallway is dark, and it puts you a little bit at ease. It reminds you of Alternian nights. Of those less stressful days where the biggest duty you had was to keep yourself from being culled. You were only responsible for yourself.

But now you’re among those responsible for the construction of a new world and civilization.

It makes you both sad and proud of just how much you’ve grown and what you’ve achieved in these past few sweeps.

“The courtblock opens for the Case of the Post-Bedtime Vagrant! The prosecution calls Citizen Karkat Vantas to the stand!”

You scoff, then turn to face Terezi with the raised hands of a criminal caught in the act.

“No need to get the jury out, Legislacerator Pyrope. This vagrant pleads guilty of breaking national curfew.”

Her smile grows. And though the eyes behind those glasses are dead, they seem to sparkle at your cooperation.

“Hmm. Well, first: the prosecution declares you “lame” for not putting up a fight. I mean, you could have allowed her to get a slap or five in before giving up! Or maybe a taste of your delicious tears...” She pauses, scrunching up her face as if in deep thought, then audibly clears her throat. “Therefore, His Honorable Tyranny sentences you to three hours of HANGOUTS with said prosecution!”

She grips your arm and begins dragging you to god knows where. You roll your eyes before slipping back into ‘character’ and mock-struggling.

“Nooo!! May Mother Grub have mercy on my miserable soul!”

She shoots you a look of (unnervingly convincing) disgust.

“You should have considered that before engaging in this unforgivable felony, Citizen Vantas.”

With that said, she tugs harder at your arm.

She’s ridiculous, but god, you love this girl.

\---

God, you hate this girl.

You are in Terezi’s respiteblock, and you have discovered an hour ago that the play prosecution only served as stepping stone to a legitimate questioning.

“So you are basically pining?”

You scowl and involuntarily sink further into the pile of too-fluffy pillows.

“I’m not fucking pining!” you shout. “All I said was that I want to see him! How can you even construe that one statement as anything remotely close to pining? It’s not like I’m unable to function properly because all I can do is think and cry about him all day or anything as disgustingly pathetic.”

You are lying through your teeth and you just fucking _know_ Terezi can smell it because she fucking _cackles_ in your face.

“You are far from being an elusive liar, Karkles,” she drawls. You grunt and turn so you’re not facing her. Hm. This pile is pretty comfortable when it’s not trying to engulf you. Maybe attempting to sleep here will be more effective...

The feigned disinterest doesn’t discourage Terezi.

“And the pining is reciprocated, so I guess it’s kind of pointless?”

_What._

How can she be sure of that? Did Dave tell her? Holy shit _what does she know_?? Does Dave really feel--

Oh god there goes your bloodpusher again.

You realize that your eyes are wide and your mouth agape, so you remedy that facial situation, then very hesitantly turn back to look at Terezi.

She’s looking--or facing--right back at you. That open-mouthed smile is still in full force.

Goddammit, why can’t you read her as well as she can you? You can’t tell whether she’s doing this to mess with you, or to get you to slip and say what she wants you to, or god forbid it’s all actually _true_. You don’t know how to react to any of those possibilities.

 _Calm down, you overexcited dunkass._ You literally wipe off any trace of concern off your face. The precaution is needed because even though she can’t see, she can fucking _see_.

“It’s definitely pointless. Because as I’ve said: neither of us are incapacitated with languish.” Well, Dave isn’t. At least, you hope he isn’t. Or is. Or... _fuck_. It’s confusion train all over again, and you hope the next stop comes soon because you need to get the hell off. “...You should get that sniffnode checked, Terezi.”

The smile is finally gone, and she only sighs. “I wish you would stop being so stubborn. I am only trying to help, you know.”

 _Help with what exactly,_ you want to shoot back, but you have a feeling it’ll only edge you closer into a corner. So instead you groan, “Why?”

“Oh, that’s easy!” she boasts, then suddenly she’s straddling you and you’ve hopped off the confusion train and on to S.S. What The Fuck. The smile is back, sharp but sweet, then she practically hisses, “Because I _adore_ you both.”

You somehow suppress a potentially embarrassing squeak. You would push her off and initiate a tirade on how fucking weird she’s being but you are motionless and tongue-tied and all that can come out is:

“You--I don’t--what??”

And she laughs. She laughs and you are _fuming_ , so you push her off with more force than intended. You would apologize but she’s still laughing her ass off, so you throw some of the pillows at her instead, hoping to motherfucking god she doesn’t sense how red your face must be.

\---

Terezi falls asleep some time during your spiel on the intricacies of certain Dane Cook routines, so you leave. But not after hoisting her back onto the pillow pile and leaving a note stating that His Honorable Tyranny has declared Citizen Vantas’s sentence served because of the prosecution’s default, so he is now, once more, a free troll.

Suck it, legal system.

You return to your post-bedtime vagrancy, though considering how you probably spent at least two hours talking with Terezi, it’s probably closer to being pre-awakening vagrancy.

Dave is probably still asleep. At least, you tell yourself that because you’re kinda still not ready to talk to him. Even though you really want to. Fuck.

So you wander, and after recalling what your past self said about going to the library/studyblock, you, predictably, make your way there. Just to spite that asshole.

To your surprise, you find Rose at her usual table. Or maybe it’s not that surprising, since she’s always had that proclivity for reading and gathering information, either from being a Seer of Light or just having a natural inclination towards knowledge.

You suppose what should be surprising is that instead of the stacks of books typically surrounding her, there’s only a single book in hand and a tray of coffee and biscuits at the side.

You consider the pros and cons of approaching her. You really want to talk to someone, because being left to your own thoughts and devices will surely lead to another Dave Strider circlejerk with yourself. And a mental debate on should you or should you not go to see him right this fucking second.

Then again, talking to Rose might just send you spiraling further into all this, as has been happening with all interpersonal contact you’ve had lately.

But you don’t get to decide because Rose sees you, and--after concluding that you must look like a dolt just standing there--waves you over to join her. You do so with an internal string of profanities.

You take the seat across from her and she smiles as she sets her book down.

“Good morning. You’re up awfully early today,” she says, sliding the biscuits towards you. You give a stiff nod and take one.

“Yeah. Not too difficult when you can’t get any sleep to begin with,” you grumble, then take a bite of the biscuit. Yep. Tasty as always. You quickly finish it off and grab another one.

Rose raises an eyebrow. “I see.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “Insomnia is typically caused by stress, which most often builds from heavy concerns weighing down the individual’s mind. So. Penny for your thoughts?”

You frown. It’s spot on, but you’re not going to say so because no way in hell do you want to be psychoanalyzed two times in a row. “There’s nothing “weighing down this individual’s mind”, Rose. I just can’t fall asleep, is all.”

“If you say so, Karkat,” she croons, and you can swear you feel her smirk as you lean back and resume nibbling. “Nevertheless, you look somewhat solicitous.” She picks up the book and reopens it in her hands. “Shall I read you a passage?”

“What?” You look at her, then at the book. The cover says Selected Poems, and there’s a bunch of names printed in tiny script at the spine. To be honest, you’re more a fan of prose than of poetry, but heck, why not?

You shrug. “I don’t know how much different it is from Alternian poetry, so sure, go ahead.” She nods, and you start to feel kind of jittery. This is shaping up to be on parallel with what Kanaya told you about Dave and slam poetry, but you try to shake it off and just focus. It’s only Rose and poetry.

She clears her throat.

“ _If a man is only as good as his word, then I want to marry a man with a vocabulary like yours._ ” She pauses. “ _The way you say dicey and delectable and octogenarian in the same sentence--that really turns me on. The way you describe the oranges in your backyard using anarchistic and intimate in the same breath._ ”

Goddamn undulating _fuck_. You want to egress. You want to just hole yourself up in your respiteblock and never come out and just _scream_. Is everyone on this rock conspiring for you to lose your sponge because _why else_ would all this be happening??

“ _\--of brilliant light until it looks more like a star chart, than a strategy for communication. I want to see where your words are born. I want to find a pattern in the astrology._ ”

Even if it’s not a meteor-wide scheme, Rose _had_ to have planned this.

“ _I want to know all the names you’ve given your desires. I want to find my name among them--_ ”

Because how else can a fucking poem rile you up so much?? Holy shit. You almost feel sorry for Dave, having had to put up with this passive-aggressive bullshit for an entire game.

“ _I want to throw a party for the heartbreak that turned you into a poet._ ”

There’s another pause, and she regards you with a look that’s an amalgam of sympathetic and downright _amused_. You sneer at her, then hide your face in your hands because _motherfuck_.

“ _...And if it is true that a man is only as good as his word, then, sweet jesus, let me be there the first time you are speechless, and all your explosive wisdom becomes a burning ball of sun in your throat...and all you can bring yourself to utter is, oh god, oh god._ ”

Rose sighs, then sets the book back down. The silence stretches and you’re just sure she’s waiting for you to say something.

“...You’re just all kinds of terrible, you know that?”

And she _giggles_.

“Some have said so.”

\---

It’s now late into the morning and you are fucking exhausted. No time for sleep though, because you suppose it’s time for you to get all this out in the open and done with but _god where do you start_.

After that encounter with Rose, you tried to calm yourself down by taking some time in the ablution chamber (but all you could focus on was how you _can and do_ make Dave speechless, and all that comes out is _oh god_ and _fuck_ and _fuck, Karkat_ and you’re motherfucking gone), then chilling some of the anxiety away with Gamzee.

You know Dave’s up and about (Kanaya told you about having passed him in the hallway), and you should probably go look for him now, but it’s just not something the two of you do. You’ve never voluntarily searched for him; you just somehow manage to meet and see each other throughout the day. It’s frustrating because why won’t that regular happenstance come about right now when you really need it to?

In a last-ditch effort, you fire up Trollian.

Aaaand...he’s not online. Fucking typical.

You push your husktop away and rest your head on your desk. How would you even begin to approach this? In spite of what future Karkat said, you still can’t be sure if this has any chance of going well. The only thing you have confidence in is in the answer you got after thinking all of it through from your standpoint.

You want him.

It’s both the same and different from when you wanted Terezi in all your quadrants. It’s the same in just how intense and brimming it is, but different in that instead of wanting him in so many ways, you just plain _want him_. Want him in a way that doesn’t fill any quadrant, and it shocks you that wow, you really don’t fucking care about that anymore because you want _this_.

A chime comes from your husktop. You look up and turntechGodhead signed in and oh god oh god oh god.

_Now or never, you dumbass._

You stare at the screen and brace yourself for what must be minutes then--

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinogeneticist [CG] --

TG: we need to talk asshole

**FUCK.**

What does he want to talk about? Is he mad that you’ve been kind of avoiding him? Is he going to break up-- _hell no_ okay now you’re just being cynical and just--look, he’s saying more.

TG: theres some things that   
TG:   
TG: look   
TG: i cant do this here   
TG: ill be in the atrium under the big tree   
TG: having an im a disaster party   
TG: youre invited   
TG: so you know what to do   
TG: when you get back   
TG: or whatever

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] \--

You take your own sweet time going to the atrium because even though you’re a pining dunkass, you’re a pining dunkass who’s about to combust in nervousness. It’s as if you’re about to confess your undying affection to him and--wait, yeah, that’s basically what you’re about to do. And that already frightens you, but there’s also how Dave is a rogue variable in all this. Though you can say that you know him, you’re not confident enough to be sure that it’ll all be okay, no matter what the others or all of the future Karkats say.

But that’s when you finally--barely--see him, and you stop. He’s, as he said, right under that huge tree. You can’t see his face, so there’s even less indication of his emotional state than usual, but you find that it doesn’t deter you, because you’re walking now, more steadily and as if you’re a troll on a fucking mission to steal the Declaration of Independence, towards him.

You’re still not that sure what Dave is to you, but to be perfectly, painfully honest with yourself, you can’t stand having him away.

You close in, then sit with your back against the tree trunk and near-perpendicular to him.

“...So.”

\---

PAST carcinoGeneticist [PCG] 439:57 HOURS AGO opened memo on board CHERRY RUMPUS ASSHOLE PARTY.

PCG: I NEED HELP.

“Fuck. Here we go again.” You cross your legs and perch the husktop more comfortably on your lap. Dave re-assumes his position of leaning with his back against your side, then looks over his shoulder at the screen.

“What’s up? The juggalo jonesing for another one of those jam things?” He chuckles when he gets a better look. “‘Cherry Rumpus Asshole Party’? And _past_ carcinoGeneticist? What the hell, bro.”

“No, and get off.” You nudge his head away from the screen. “It’s a board for talking with my past and future selves.”

“...Huh.” He moves so that he’s now behind you, then rests his chin on your shoulder. “So what’s this past past you whining about?

PAST carcinoGeneticist [PCG2] 1111:18 HOURS AGO responded to memo.  
PCG2: DO *NOT* GO TO THE LIBRARY DURING THURSDAY NIGHTS.  
PCG2: REGARDLESS OF WHAT YOU WANT TO FUCKING RESEARCH.

You frown. “I never actually figured that out. I don’t remember witnessing something at the library that’s scarring enough to make me go to a memo.”

PCG banned PCG2 from responding to memo.  
PCG: NO.  
PCG: FUTURE KARKATS ONLY.  
PCG: PLEASE.

“Haha, poor dude. Wanna risk the potential trauma and check it out tonight?”

You take a moment to weigh the consequences. On one hand, you’d be reliving an event that had scarred you enough that you repressed it and forgot. On the other, Dave will be there, too.

No fucking question.

“It’s a date,” you declare. “Now shut up. I need to talk to this asshole.”

He does so, only to compensate by more thoroughly invading your personal bubble. You would smack him, but instead you find yourself leaning further against his chest and the arms around your stomach.

CURRENT carcinoGeneticist [CCG] RIGHT NOW responded to memo.  
CCG: TALK TO ME.  
PCG: OH.  
CCG: GO ON.  
PCG: WELL.  
PCG: I’M JUST SO FUCKING CONFUSED RIGHT NOW.  
PCG: BUT.  
PCG: CAN I ASK YOU SOMETHING FIRST.  
CCG: SHOOT.  
PCG: ARE YOU AND DAVE STILL A THING?

You feel Dave shaking with laughter from behind you.

“Oh god. I did the math, bro.” It takes a moment for you to catch on, and you feel your face warm up when you do. “Of all people. You seriously consulted your future self over that shit?”

You elbow him at the side. “Give me a fucking break! He is--or I’m--or--fuck. Considering the confidential candidates on this rock, who better for me to confide in than myself?”

He snorts. “Wow. I’m impressed. That’s a whole new level of pathetic right there.” He punctuates each sentence with a poke on your cheek. You hiss and push the hand away. Unaffected, he drops his hand.

“Pathetic _and_ rude.” He turns his attention to the keyboard and begins typing something. “It’s not nice to ignore your past self when he’s obviously in a nasty love pickle.”

“What are you--”

CCG: YES WE ARE A THING  
CCG: WE ARE SO FUCKING MATTER THAT OUR DENSE REALNESS CONTINUES TO EXPAND THIS MOTHERFUCKING UNIVERSE AS WE SPEAK  
CCG: WE ARE MORE REAL THAN KRAFT MAYO

You stare at the replies, then at Dave.

“What.”

He stares right back.

“Cosmology, motherfucker, do you speak it.”

PCG: WHAT.

SAY WHAT AGAIN I DARE YOU I DOUBLE DARE YOU MOTHE|

You slap his hands away before he can finish typing, then sneer. “Can you not?”

He circles his arms back around your waist. “Only if I’m promised sloppy makeouts when you’re done with this cooperative introspection.”

You respond with an histrionic sigh. “Only if you get off. Right now.”

“That costs extra. One dance of the biological tango after sloppy makeouts.”

“ _Dave._ ”

CCG: BUT WE’RE SUPPOSED TO BE TALKING ABOUT YOU AND YOUR SHIT.  
CCG: SO GET ON WITH SAID TALKING SO I CAN BESTOW UPON YOU MY INCREDIBLY SAGACIOUS ADVICE.

You--thankfully--manage to go through the rest of the conversation in peace. Though this tranquility doesn’t last long as right after you close your husktop, you are assaulted with an embrace that is the complete opposite of tender, and suddenly you’ve got douchey coolkid in your arms and right at your face.

“ _Howdy_ , kitty cat,” he drawls in that alluring accent. His lips are barely an inch from yours. His shades are off, so you are treated to the sight of those warm, refreshingly expressive eyes looking straight at you.

You remember a time when you were freaking out over seeing specks of red on one of your eyes, and Dave had caught you having an insecure fit about it. He had cuffed you at the head, saying it was no big deal, then explained how his eyes got to be that similar red shade.

“So I’m a mutant too, dude,” he had concluded. “It’s no problem. We can be freaks together. Be one candy red freak show that’ll make Terezi cream her panties every fucking second of the act, you and I.”

You let Dave kiss you, slow and gentle. Even though you’ve done this so many times before, the thrill of the contact makes your heart beat like a drum.

You’re still sweeps away from being that candy red freak show, but you’re together, and right now, you are perfectly fine with just that.

**Author's Note:**

> * The poem that Rose read is (as far as I'm aware) an untitled work by Mindy Nettifee.
> 
> * I apologize for the all the allusions to _50 First Dates_.
> 
> * There are a lot of 'fuck's in this. I apologize for that, too. (Not really.)
> 
> With many thanks to **RD** for educating me on the world of romcoms, and of movies and romance in general. (And for letting me cry and angst on his shoulder every time I was blocked.)
> 
> And of course to **mercurialMalcontent** for writing an absolutely terrific piece. I implore whoever took the time to read this pile of _what_ to take a look at their works!


End file.
